


Ain't no Sunshine (when he's gone)

by raiyana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elemmakil the Long-Suffering, Idiots in Love, M/M, When you assume..., miscommunications, mutual presumed unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26210878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Discovering a new source of sunlight in his world brings Ecthelion less joy and more frustration than Elemmakil ever deserved.Galdor tries to be an excellent wingman, but it's hard when the target audience doesn't react in expected ways - though Glorfindel is nothing if not persistent.Aka, Obliviots in Love
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain & Elemmakil, Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel
Comments: 60
Kudos: 55
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Sweet Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vik/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ehh, Turgon won't mind...](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/678685) by Vik/Celebrimbot/fightyoursorrow. 



> This was written for the lovely [Vik](https://twitter.com/fightyoursorrow) whose art and gentle encouragement has been a source of light in these dark times - thank you!  
> Also thanks to my lovely beta firstamazon for helping me wrangle all of the commas and run-on sentences into something coherent!

# 

It was such a small thing, Ecthelion thought, lifting the proffered bread – lovely and warm, and filled with slices of roast venison – to his lips, taking a moment to savour the smell of it as he stared at the back of the giver’s head before ravenously biting into the succulent meal.

Glorfindel did not look back, but the memory of his smile, of the way he had shown up, unprompted by anything more than the weary way Ecthelion held himself after a long day of breaking stone, to offer sustenance warmed him almost more than the food.

Such a small thing, and yet he knew that it was bigger than any chronicler might note; the smile lingered in his heart as he chewed thoughtfully, wondering.

They were not particular friends, after all; he had fallen into a friendship with Turgon crafted in workshops and drawing rooms, and Glorfindel’s association with their young king seemed to have begun in the sparring rings, even though he thought they were related somehow, well-matched in brawn, and speed and both of them favouring the sword.

Once, it took no more than a shared interest to create a friendship – how truly naïve they had all been then, unawares and innocent, playing at things that had become so painfully real in ways none might have foreseen.

Ecthelion certainly hadn’t, feeling almost insulted by the fact that he had had no glimpses – but then, if he had known the horrors he would one day see and do… no, perhaps it was as well that his gift had not shown him what was to come. The training in Irmo’s gardens could never have prepared him for the soul-withering terror of the Ice, nor the self-loathing and impotent rage of witnessing the horrors done in Alqualondë, turning their playful tools into weapons of war in one bloody night.

Swallowing his suddenly too-big mouthful, feeling it stick in his throat, Ecthelion grabbed for his waterskin, wishing it held something more potent. He did not wish to think of those dark days; this was a time of hope, of building a safe haven for their people, and memories of bitter cold and sticky-warm blood did not belong in the valley.

“There’s a bit of wine in this one,” Glorfindel offered, startling Ecthelion into dropping his skin, splashing water all over his chest. “Oops.”

Ecthelion blushed. “Ah… thank you,” he replied lamely, giving up the inefficient way he had been brushing at his chest and accepting the skin. Filling his mouth with the sweet-sour wine, he surrendered himself to the idea of spending the rest of the day in a soaked tunic.

At least it was only water, he thought, almost wanting to smile.

“You’re welcome!” Glorfindel beamed, looking far too pleased.

Ecthelion smiled back cautiously, handing back the skin. He felt oddly surprised at his own surprise when Glorfindel threw back his head and drank down a proper swallow – Ecthelion’s eyes caught on the way Glorfindel’s throat worked – and handed the skin back to him.

Then Glorfindel grinned again, sauntering off with a happy cry at the sight of Galdor carrying a stag carcass over his shoulders. Ecthelion was left to stare after him, one hand covering the odd feeling that had suddenly appeared in the pit of his stomach.

_A small thing, and hardly note-worthy in songs or tales_ , he thought. And yet – and _yet_ …

Letting the sweet sensation fill him, headier than the Vanyarin wine his mother had loved to serve for feast days, Ecthelion sat down, leaning back in the grass as he watched the clouds pass over his head.

I… _like_ him.

Eru help me.


	2. Muddled Waters

“Oh!” Ecthelion gasped, taking a step back through the doorway that led to the King’s library – or what would be the Library, once they got around to writing more books – and clapping a hand over his eyes. “Lord Galdor said you had need of me, Lord Glorfindel?” he called.

“Ecthelion!” Glorfindel exclaimed breathlessly. The soft sounds of lips meeting stopped, and Ecthelion heard a small giggle and the rustle of clothing. “Yes, I, uh… wanted to ask your opinion on the decoration of our stables – you are skilled with marble, and I wish to put a frieze above the doorways and round the edges of the roof…”

Ecthelion peeked out from beneath half-closed lids, and saw Glorfindel looking sheepish but dressed. There was no sign of the silver-haired elf who had just been moaning on his lap. He opened his eyes fully and cleared his throat. “I can, uhm, certainly sketch some suggestions?” he offered. “Though I should, erm… let you get back to your current, uhm, _assignation…_ ”

“Wha… oh, Cuinor…” Glorfindel blushed. “Yeah, I… How are you?”

Ecthelion made a valiant effort to expunge from his memory the sight of the two of them entwined, though he couldn’t help but remember the way Glorfindel’s hand had been gripping Cuinor’s backside, feeling a sting of envy that it wasn’t _him_ who had been caught in such an intimate moment with the golden-haired elf.

“Well, thank you,” he replied without thinking, noting the flush to Glorfindel’s skin, and the way his lips had been kissed into perfect redness.

“Anything you wish to say?” Glorfindel prompted, sounding almost hopeful.

Ecthelion shook his head, but changed his mind – of course, he couldn’t say what was truly on his mind, which was mostly filled with envious yearning – and said, “Only that you might wish to act on such desires in a less… _public_ place?” He paused – though he tried not to think about what it would feel like to muss up those golden curls with his fingers – and added, “And inform your friends not to send people to seek you out in the middle of things…” He gestured towards the low divan just visible through the doorway, its cushions scattered haphazardly in evidence of the bodies that had just lain there.

“Errm… yes,” Glorfindel nodded, looking back over his shoulder with a sheepish smile, his cheeks bright red. “That was not the best idea.”

“Indeed,” Ecthelion agreed drily, determinedly not looking at the strip of bared skin left on display by the undone lacing of Glorfindel’s tunic, the hollow of his throat too kissable by far. “You may call upon me in three days when I shall have come up with a possible design for your building,” he added, turning around. “I bid you a good day, my lord…” he said, once more assaulted by the memory of Glorfindel’s fist wrapped around silver locks, steering Cuinor in a passionate kiss, “though from what I saw, that is assured.”

He did not look back to see Glorfindel wince, holding his head high as his heart wept in his breast, determined not to let anyone see how hard the dashing of his unspoken hopes hit.

“Your plans stink worse than a barrel of horse dung!” Glorfindel seethed, gripping Galdor’s arm.

“‘Hello Galdor, welcome home from your hunt, how was the trip?’,” Galdor replied, changing his voice to mimic Glorfindel’s usual baritone before continuing in his usual soft voice. “Why, thank you, friend Glorfindel, it was splendid! Brought down four mountain goats and a number of birds, too!”

“I’m not in the mood, Galdor,” Glorfindel continued, voice hard in anger. “Your crappy plan destroyed everything!”

Ecthelion looked up from the bakery stall he was browsing – a selection of cordials already rested in the basket hung over his arm; Elemmakil’s begetting day was coming up and he had promised his friend a fine meal in celebration. He wondered how Galdor had managed to make otherwise unflappable Glorfindel so incandescently angry; he had been outside the city on a hunt for two days which Ecthelion knew because he’d met the party as they were leaving. That was why he had gone looking for Glorfindel in the Library and found… Cutting off the memory harshly, banishing it to the farthest corners of his mind, Ecthelion accepted the fresh herb-scented loaf with something he hoped would be read as a smile.

“My plan was fine!” Galdor protested, throwing off Glorfindel’s hold. “ _You_ probably did it wrong, standing there all tongue-tied and foolish like you always do!”

“Did not!” Glorfindel hissed. “You promised me it would work – and it did everything but!”

“Well, the absence of the desired result isn’t failure,” Galdor replied sagely, airily waving his anger away.

Ecthelion wondered if Galdor couldn’t see how Glorfindel’s temper rose a few more notches at those words, half-tempted to call for one of Turgon’s personal soldiers in case he had to break up a fight between the Lord of the Tree and his best friend. 

“Is everything well, my lords?” he asked sharply, taking three steps towards them - though he carefully remained outside swinging distance. He had gained some skill with weaponry, but he had never been a wrestler by nature, preferring to use his words to achieve solutions.

“Just a minor difference of opinion!” Galdor smiled sunnily.

Glorfindel scoffed, turning back on his heel with a muttered expletive. Galdor ignored him entirely, though Ecthelion’s eyes flashed to his left, enjoying the sight of golden curls leading his gaze downwards to take in the way his broad shoulders stretched the soft blue fabric of his tunic.

“Lord Glorfindel and I are bosom friends once more,” Galdor continued, still smiling genially, if lacking in credibility.

“As you say, Lord Galdor,” Ecthelion replied carefully, pretending to be convinced as he watched Glorfindel stalk off looking like a dark cloud unto himself. His heart hurt at the sight, wanting to follow his steps, discover the root of the problem and return the sun-brightsmile to Glorfindel’s face, even as he castigated himself for overstepping. That was Cuinor’s place, not his, and he ought to remember that.

“My friend has suffered a disappointment, Lord Ecthelion,” Galdor continued, “yet I am certain it can be resolved to the satisfaction of all involved.”

“If you say so, Lord Galdor,” Ecthelion nodded, making his escape. “Good day to you.”


	3. Building Memories

# Building Memories

“You have to agree he’s been helpful,” Elemmakil offered quietly when they met by the water barrel, taking a sip of water and pouring the rest of the ladle over his dark hair, sighing at the cool relief from the heat of the day. “And I’ve caught you enjoying the fine view, too.”

“I do not have to agree to any such thing,” Ecthelion snapped back, though he knew Elemmakil wouldn’t believe him for a second, “this task was appointed to _our_ house – and Glorfindel just _barged in_ and _-_ ” and looked too good for his heart to handle, strong arms showing through fabric when he helped moving the heavy blocks of stone they needed.

“Well, I’d like to see _you_ manage to tell the Golden Flower that he _can’t_ help with something he’s decided to offer to do – and for which he, in fact, has been immensely helpful,” Elemmakil retorted, dancing out of Ecthelion’s reach with a laugh when he pretended to push Elemmakil’s head into the barrel.

Ecthelion grumbled something wordlessly, suddenly distracted by the precise angle of the shadow cast over Glorfindel’s jaw.

“We both know those blue eyes would melt you in minutes, old friend,” Elemmakil teased, “even if Lord Glorfindel has not made that discovery so far.”

“We know _nothing of the sort, Elemmakil!_ ” Ecthelion hissed, snatching up the ladle and tossing back a large gulp that did very little to cool him down whatsoever.

Elemmakil just laughed, brushing the wet hair out of his eyes and retying the leather tong that held it gathered in a long tail down his back.

Sometimes, Ecthelion thought, being Lord of his own house was so not worth it when you had to put up with second in commands who knew you _far_ too well.

“Nothing!” he repeated sourly, taking another drink and wondering why he had ever thought telling Elemmakil where his heart had settled would be a _good_ idea.

But he knew why. The feeling was too strong to remain as hidden as he would have wished it to stay once he had realised exactly how deeply he had fallen for the golden-haired warrior - who had never so much as looked at him twice!

Ecthelion told himself that it didn’t sting, but he knew he was lying, just as well as Elemmakil knew his protests were about as truthful as the old rumour that Egalmoth was going to wed Irissë.

“If you say so, my lord,” Elemmakil teased, heading back to the stoneworkers’ carts with a jaunty tune on his lips.

Ecthelion had to admit, at least to himself, that Elemmakil was right. He, too, would have caved when Glorfindel offered to help carry the large blocks of stone to their masons, showing off his impressive physique - as well as his quick and annoyingly funny wit - all afternoon. Ecthelion had caught himself looking once or twice, even chuckling at a quip here or there.

He didn’t _want_ to like Glorfindel, but it seemed like his heart hadn’t got that message one bit; it _still_ beat a little faster at the sight of Glorfindel’s kind smiles, or the way the late afternoon sunlight got trapped in his glorious mane.

He definitely didn’t appreciate the way his eyes seemed determined to linger on Glorfindel’s bare chest when he’d ripped off his sweat-soaked shirt earlier, just as he tried not to look at the way his backside rounded pleasingly when he bent down to lift the heavy blocks of stone for their newest fountain.

He had been very careful not to accept any of the stones from Glorfindel’s hands himself, more than a little terrified that the Lord of Golden Flowers would read the naked desire in his eyes, would pluck lustful thoughts directly from his head like a curious magpie. The dreams of what might have been that sometimes plagued him never lacked for variety at the very least, even if the subject was always the same.

Returning to his task, fixing stone with thin layers of mortar in the most precise manner – he had been planning the work on this fountain for over a year, in honour of Elenwë; her begetting day was coming up, and Turgon had planned a grand festival in her memory. Ecthelion’s new creation was to be unveiled then, and officially named the Queen’s Fountain.

He wanted to do well. Not just because it was created at the request of his King, but rather because he had been fond of Elenwë. He missed her sweet nature tempering the oft-stern notions of his King, and wished to do right by her even in such a small way as he could, making a beautiful thing for eyes that would never see it.

Losing himself in the work, he could see the way the water would play across the stones: sweet like Elenwë had been, turning the stones a darkish grey-silver like her eyes had been, the bottom inlaid with a curling script in golden artwork - crafted by Rôg and his smiths - Elenwë’s names and accomplishments spelled out for the generations to come. Running a thumb over the first part of her name, he couldn’t help but remember her quiet strength, recall the way her laughter would light up Turgon’s stern frowns, and miss her voice raised in a song of the stars at night - soft lullabies whispered in the dark hours to soothe terrified hearts of young and old alike.

“You miss her.”

Ecthelion almost jumped out of his skin, whirling on one foot to glare at the speaker, mouth already open in a tirade when he faltered. Glorfindel smiled, sweet like golden honey, and with none of his usual teasing that Ecthelion was so familiar with from the practise rings. The glimpses of sweetness were more unsettling, sneaking past Ecthelion’s defences to lodge in his heart like they were more than what they seemed.

“Glorfindel…?”

He inwardly cursed, wondering if the golden-haired elf knew exactly what that sort of smile did to him, turning him from a battle-hardened veteran to a sweet youngster at heart, and reminding Ecthelion of the earliest days of knowing him - before the Darkening of Morgoth and their terrible flight across the Ice had tempered them both from too-rash youths into deadly warriors.

“Elenwë, I mean,” Glorfindel added, nodding down at where Ecthelion’s hand was still touching the golden-steel lettering that ran along the base of the central piece where Elenwë’s statue would stand.

“I… yes,” Ecthelion admitted. “I was very fond of her. Still am.” He sighed, once more lost in the past, remembering the way Elenwë had danced with her daughter through the gardens of Tirion, their heads as golden as the elf before him.

“’Very fond’?” Glorfindel repeated, tilting his head thoughtfully. “But she – I mean, Turgon, he-”

“Not like _that_ ,” Ecthelion replied crossly, folding his arms across his chest. “She was my mother’s cousin, and I was fond of her. She was one of my playmates in youth, of course I miss her. I miss my other cousins, too, and my family.”

Glorfindel nodded, looking uncommonly sombre for a moment. “It is hard to live without those whom we love,” he agreed, seeming too far away to touch for all that they were less than an arm’s reach apart. “Though perhaps we shall see them again, one day… I do hope…”

“I did not recall you leaving anyone behind in Aman?” Ecthelion said, intrigued despite the sudden clench of his heart. He had known his interest to be foolish from the moment he realised it, and the lesson had been reinforced more than once over the years, or whenever he caught sight of Glorfindel with a new lover in his arms. The dalliances never lasted long, he knew, and seemed mostly physical – a relief he, too, indulged in here and there, even if he was more discreet than Glorfindel. But if Glorfindel had left an Amarië of his own behind, then his unspoken wishes were utterly futile.

“My mothers,” Glorfindel said, that same sorrowed smile on his face. “I often wonder if I might have a sister or a brother now and never know of it… this is why I think the Doom shall be not forever,” he added. “Even the Valar cannot be so cruel as to separate kin so for all eternity.”

“I shouldn’t count on it,” Ecthelion scoffed, though in his heart of hearts he hoped Glorfindel had the right of it. His own family had been sundered by the Kinslaying, too, and there were some beyond the water, whether dead or alive still, he would never know. “To beings such as they, who is to say the lifetime of Arda is not merely the blink of an eye? As the Edain are to us, so we must seem to them, though infinitely more strange.” 

He had learned much during the time he had lived in the gardens of Lórien, trying to hone his gift of Foresight – not that it was a skill that could ever be truly mastered, but he had not as a child understood the strange broken dreams and nightmares that haunted him, and although Irmo’s realm of dreams had given him some peace, it had also shown him just how different his people truly were to their benefactors.

“Still, do not lose hope,” Glorfindel smiled, so sincere in his belief that Ecthelion felt his resolve crumble, tiny rays of hope springing forth from the withered walls he had built around his heart during the long dark march across the treacherous Ice. “I think we shall see the lights of Aman once more, you and I.”

Ecthelion felt a small smile grow on his face at that thought, warmed by the echo he saw on Glorfindel’s face.

“Oy, Goldilocks!” Elemmakil called, breaking the sudden quiet between them, and bringing back the noise and calls of the workers around them with a sudden clamour. “Stop making bedroom eyes at my Lord and get back to work!”

“Yes, Captain.” Glorfindel shot Ecthelion another boyish grin as he got back to his feet with a slight groan, stretching his back in a way that made his chest even more appealing as a place to rest the eyes.

Ecthelion cursed himself, well aware that if anyone had been making bedroom eyes at anyone, it was _him,_ not Glorfindel.

He didn’t know if he ought to curse Elemmakil too.


	4. In Vino Veritas

# In Vino Veritas

“Here,” Glorfindel said brusquely, too busy glaring over his shoulder to note Ecthelion’s baffled expression as he accepted the proffered goblet of wine. He managed to get his face under control by the time Glorfindel actually looked at him, raising the goblet in a small toast along with a questioning eyebrow.

Glorfindel shook his head, taking a seat beside Ecthelion and crossing his arms over his chest, bared muscles gleaming in the firelight as he sat and stared fixedly at the evening’s entertainment.

By the large fire, Duilin sang a sweet tune that Ecthelion remembered hearing at King Finwë’s court in his youth, naming the stars in the heavens and praising the work of Varda. Thus, Ecthelion did not speak to his unexpected companion, leaving Glorfindel to stew in his own thoughts for a while.

The wine flowed silkily across his tongue, as sweet as the memories of long evenings in Treelight drinking wine and sharing thoughts with friends and kin, listening to the sweet sound of a harp or the playful strumming of a lyre floating through air redolent with the scent of honeysuckle.

Glancing back towards the barrel of wine that had been tapped to the sound of great cheers earlier, Ecthelion caught sight of Egalmoth’s calm smile, briefly wondering if anything ever ruffled the Heavenly Arch’s feathers. Egalmoth’s serene reasonableness was most often a boon in councils, and yet it felt almost unnatural that anyone could have such an even temper and still be friends with Turgon. Raising his goblet in another silent toast, he waited till Egalmoth had nodded back to him to take another swallow of the sweet wine.

Glorfindel did not speak, staring at the fire in sullen silence.

“Is it your intent to remain at my side like a dark cloud portending heavy rains all eve?” he asked conversationally, turning back to look at Glorfindel, whose lips were set in a thin angry line that almost begged to be pried apart by a curious tongue.

Reining himself in harshly, Ecthelion breathed in deeply, forcing his focus back to Duilin with his lyre as he shifted slightly in his seat, wondering how soon it would be acceptable for him to get up and leave; Glorfindel smelled too good, the elanori scent of his soap mingling with his natural smell into a sweetly spicy mix that made Ecthelion’s heart beat faster when he drew in a deep breath, trying to control his distracted mind. Perhaps drinking Glorfindel’s proffered wine was not his wisest choice.

“Galdor is a pain,” Glorfindel growled, turning to glare back towards the barrels of wine where Galdor was cheerfully pouring another goblet for Idril.

“Close friends often are,” Ecthelion replied, thinking of Elemmakil and his less than amusing quips about the very same elf now sitting next to him - and Ecthelion’s own unfortunate inability to get past his inconvenient attraction to him. “I’m told it’s a mark of affection, betimes – I know that I tease Elemmakil almost as much as he does me, for example. You and Galdor have been friends for long years – it makes sense to me that he would know the best ways to get your hackles up, whether in jest or not…”

“He just… won’t stop telling me I’m being a fool – and I already _know_ that,” Glorfindel sighed, tossing back his wine. “I wanted some _sympathy_ , is that too much to ask?”

“Perhaps I might provide it in his stead?” Ecthelion offered mildly, wondering what in the name of Oromë could be troubling Glorfindel, who seemed so carefree that it often lifted his own spirits just to catch a glimpse of him smiling at someone in the marketplace. “If your troubles indeed _warrant_ sympathy, that is,” he added, giving Glorfindel a small teasing smile that he wasn’t quite sure they were friendly enough for, but the wine had loosened some of his inhibitions and at any rate he could not unsmile it now.

For a moment, Glorfindel stared at him, mouth pursed in thought.

Then he laughed, golden and joyful, a liquid sound of amusement that seemed to reverberate in Ecthelion’s chest, turning his own smile softer in return.

“Aye, perhaps you might, at that,” Glorfindel nodded, getting to his feet, “but our goblets seem to have emptied, and I think more wine may be needed beforehand.”

Silently, Ecthelion offered up his cup - though he was hovering on the edge of what he found comfortable - and watched the way that long silky mane flowed down Glorfindel’s back, the light of torches and lamps catching hypnotically in the wavy strands as he moved back towards Galdor and his wine servants.

Tearing his eyes away before Glorfindel could turn around to notice, Ecthelion stuffed one of the small delectable pastries into his mouth, and enjoyed the tart sweetness of the rhubarb filling alongside the crunch of nuts, licking sticky honey off his fingers as he pensively stared at Duilin’s troupe of musicians setting up for a larger ensemble piece.

“Here,” Glorfindel said, though this time the words were not shaped like an attack – and still there was something unnamed hiding in those syllables. As Ecthelion looked up to take the proffered goblet, he found himself lost for a moment in storm-dark blue eyes, letting his hand fall weakly into his lap as his tongue wiped the last sweet residue from his lips.

Glorfindel fell into his seat, groaning as he swallowed near half the contents of his goblet at once.

“So…” Ecthelion began, “will you tell me what worries our finest of warriors, the best beloved Lord of the Golden Flowers?”

“Love,” Glorfindel sighed, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes for a moment, letting the music swell in the sudden silence between them. “This is the root of my sorrow and Galdor’s unkind prodding – _love.”_

Ecthelion’s heart dropped somewhere south of his soft boots. “Oh,” he offered, setting the goblet on the small table beside him as he wondered whether he would soon feel the small rhubarb pastry make a return. “You are in love?”

“In lust, certainly, but more… this one is _special_ ,” Glorfindel sighed, looking at Naryo playing a laughing fiddle by the fire as Duilin’s voice invoked images of Oromë’s hunters. “He’s sweet – never an unkindness spoken, though I know he has a temper and a sharp wit to match – and I…”

“You feel as though your soul dances a little at the sight of him?” Ecthelion offered, mouth dry. It was the best way he knew to describe the feeling to himself, though in this moment the fluttery dance had become a slow wobble of fearfulness.

Eyes closed once more, Glorfindel nodded.

Ecthelion’s heart seemed to stop for a moment.

“That is a well-phrased description,” he agreed. “And I… I invent excuses to speak to him, despite knowing that I shall never be more than a friend in his estimation – he is not given to such pursuits of pleasure as I am, I think, and should hold my ways against me if ever I tried to…” Glorfindel made a speaking gesture, and Ecthelion realised that he might be tempted to offer this proposed love all he would take, even if that amounted only to Glorfindel’s body in pleasure.

He felt cold. Glorfindel had a reputation as a voracious and generous lover. Ecthelion had always known that, and he was no innocent in such matters himself, but to hear such a mercenary idea spoken as though something to be _desired_ … no. Glorfindel should never live like that, his loving heart soured by yearning for more than he could obtain; Ecthelion knew all too well that agony.

“If it is love, as you say,” Ecthelion said quietly, “you deserve more than a fleeting bedmate. Perhaps you should simply tell him that you desire more than this friendship you have crafted?”

“What if it is too fragile?” Glorfindel asked, turning his head to look at him again. Ecthelion felt his heart break even as it fluttered under that deep blue gaze, filled with once-sweet-now-bitter _want._ “What if this elf whom I desire… does not?”

“Then at least you know?” Ecthelion asked, hating that the words sounded like a question and wishing that he could add ‘and then I would perhaps have a chance…’

“And what if I could not bear the answer, preferring the hope of ignorance to the possibility of pain a rejection would cause?” Glorfindel asked softly.

Ecthelion frantically grabbed for his goblet, trying to hide his face in the polished crystal before Glorfindel could notice his own desire written across his features.

“But could you?” he wondered, once he had regained control of his own face, smoothing it into polite interest. “Speaking for myself, this ‘hope’ you call it is not much to live on – but I am well aware that the one whom I long for does not see me in such a light, so perhaps there is no hope, only soreness left of my heart, and a wish that it had chosen differently…”

“ _You_ are in love?” Glorfindel said, looking so surprised that Ecthelion had to laugh, knowing it to be a broken, bitter thing, but laughter all the same.

“Not many notice,” he shrugged, looking away from those blue eyes and catching the gaze of Turgon on his throne, the garnets in his crown blood-like in the low light. He raised his goblet in salute, receiving his King’s nod in response, and swallowed the rest of his wine.

“You hide it well,” Glorfindel said quietly, raising his own goblet in a toast to their King. “I had not suspected…”

“I am not accustomed to wearing my heart on my sleeve,” Ecthelion agreed, “and for the longest time it was not love, though more fondness than I carry for many friends… and now it is a mellowed ache, a sweet dream unrealised that I know cannot be…” He sighed, lifting the goblet to his mouth only to discover it empty. “And still I do love him so that I think his presence shall always make my soul feel light, though I know his heart is turned to another.”

“And this is why you think I should tell the one I love of my heart?” Glorfindel asked, seeming to look for the answer at the bottom of his own cup.

“Yes,” Ecthelion said quietly, though he knew his heart to be breaking at the words leaving his mouth. “Perhaps it is not too late for you, yet – if you do not speak, perhaps your love, like mine, will turn his heart to another before you find the courage, and you will be left with the echoing emptiness of regret unspoken…”

“I adore you,” Glorfindel uttered hesitantly, speaking into the goblet. “I… love you.”

“Precisely so,” Ecthelion said, giving him a small strained smile as he tried to pretend those words had been for him, wanting to weep that he could not fool himself so. “And now I will seek my bed, my lord, and bid you good night – and luck be with you.”

He wanted to be proud that he managed the last bit of encouragement, but he really just felt numb as he wandered through the deserted streets towards his own house.


	5. A Melancholy Music

Sitting on the edge of the fountain that graced the courtyard of his beloved home, Ecthelion played his long silver flute softly, a melancholy sound floating in the late afternoon sun. He had made excuses to hide in his drawing room for days, working on a new design for a fountain - though he had very little to show for it except sorrowful flute music.

Calling it cowardice had not swayed him into wanting to rejoin the bustling life of Gondolin outside the walls of his peaceful house, certain as he was that, by now, the streets would be abuzz with the news of Glorfindel wooing his pretty musician.

It was one thing to know that the softness he’d long been denying in his own soul would remain unrequited, and yet quite another to be confronted with the knowledge so blatantly – and knowing that he had been instrumental in bringing this misery upon himself only made the pain of it worse.

I had thought I was past this…he thought, staring at his own reflection in the water, the sound of his flute dying into silence. I should have learned that lesson by now. He was never meant to be mine, and I should be happy that he has found someone to love, to bring about a little happiness in the world.

But he could not convince himself that he was, and so Ecthelion raised the flute once more, closing his eyes as he played out his grief.

“I heard you were seen being cosy with our Golden Lord during the celebrations,” Elemmakil teased, walking through the gates into the courtyard. “…oh.”

Ecthelion did not look at him, though the sweet notes of his silver flute faltered for a second before he gathered himself once more.

He felt more than saw Elemmakil take a seat beside him; a pillar of warm silent comfort that had been sorely missed this past moon that he had been posted to the Secret Path’s guard, even before his heart had been torn asunder.

The flute fell to his lap, silenced.

“What has happened, my friend?” Elemmakil asked gently, wrapping his arm around Ecthelion’s shoulders. “I had expected to come home to a house filled with joy, not this melancholy… is it your dreams again?”

Ecthelion shook his head. The portentous dreams that sometimes plagued him had not stirred from the gardens of Irmo for many moons, and he almost missed having them. Feeling awful because he dreamt of terrible things either already past or yet to come felt far more permissible than this morose moping over a broken heart that he should never have given away in the first place.

And yet how could he not have offered his heart to such life as Glorfindel held, to those smiles that seemed to lift even the darkest of his moods? How could he not have loved one such as he, ever-generous with time and skill, quick to turn a phrase into smiles on those around him and staving off the darkness of Morgoth for just a moment? Even before they had come to Gondolin, when they had lived in Nevrast, Glorfindel’s light would warm any room he entered, and Ecthelion had come to value his input in councils, too - that tactical mind that he must have inherited from his grandfather was a boon to anyone attempting to defend the land they had made their own.

“No dreams, my friend,” he sighed at long last. “At least not that kind. Only… broken ones.”

“Will you tell me?” Elemmakil asked, squeezing gently. He smelled like the dark road and dust.

Ecthelion wrinkled his nose. “The bathhouse,” he decided, feeling the swirl of fabric as his long belted robe settled over his deep blue skirts when he got to his feet, the flute carelessly held in one hand. “I shall comb your hair for you.”

Elemmakil’s smile was small and gentle; the act of combing long strands straight and even always seemed to order Ecthelion’s mind, allowing him to sort through jumbled thoughts in peace, and Elemmakil rarely denied him the comfort of doing something with his hands as he tried to cut through the spiderwebs of his mind.

“The road does cling, secret or no,” Elemmakil agreed placidly, walking along beside him, still wearing the armour that had become so comfortable on him it sometimes made Ecthelion sad. He barely remembered Elemmakil as he had been in Tirion, usually clad in loose weaves or silks, showing off his well-honed shape yet also concealing it, but it was a far cry from the warrior now walking beside him.

“We have changed so,” Ecthelion mused, looking around at the stone streets, nodding to people in passing who acknowledged his presence, “since the days before the Doom, I mean…”

“You still play your flute beautifully,” Elemmakil replied, ducking out of the way of a tired baker carrying a tray of warm loaves. “I think we have been honed, not changed. In that aspect, Fëanáro was right: living with the Valar was cosy and safe, but there was little room for growth. Here, there is nothing but.”

“But a hard sort of growth,” Ecthelion sighed. “Even here, where peace prevails and Morgoth’s shadow is but distant, we are wary and on guard at all times.”

“One day, we shall not need to,” Elemmakil said, the words sounding almost like an oath.

Ecthelion shivered in the warm sunlight. “I-” but he did not get the words out, lost in staring at the two entwined people standing in a recessed doorway slightly further down the street.

He recognised them at once, the playful red hair of Glorfindel’s Naryo so close to Galdor’s silver-pale locks as to leave no doubt that this was a lovers’ embrace, even if he could only see Galdor’s green clad arm wrapped around his back.

“Oh, Galdor and his new squeeze?” Elemmakil said, coming to a stop beside him. “Yeah, the marketplace was full of all that when I passed. Voronwë tells me he’s talented with a lute.”

“Yes, he… played at the Samírien celebration some days ago,” Ecthelion replied, feeling at once numb with shock and utterly enraged.

“I was sorry to miss it,” Elemmakil said, continuing down the street. Ecthelion forced his own feet to follow.


	6. The Flow of Temper

“You truly are out of sorts,” Elemmakil said quietly as they walked into the bathing chamber, naked but for Ecthelion’s thin robe; Elemmakil had decided against a robe, feeling too grubby in his own skin to wish to soil the fine garment embroidered with Ecthelion’s sigil. “I count at least three openings for you to tease me for something – you didn’t even pick up that one about Voronwë’s eyes! – and yet you have not.” He paused, lowering himself into the water. “What _happened_ while I was away?”

“Nothing,” Ecthelion sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the pool. He was quite proud of the design and construction of this bathhouse, but even the beauty of water running musically across stone could not lift his glum mood. He picked up a wide-toothed comb. “Let me comb your hair for you.”

Elemmakil acquiesced in silence, taking a seat on the ledge that ran along the wall of the pool and letting Ecthelion begin to untangle a week’s worth of snarls from his long dark hair. Closing his eyes, he simply enjoyed the pleasant scratch of the comb against his scalp, the relief of tight braids undone by clever fingers, knowing that Ecthelion would speak when he was ready to do so.

Ecthelion thought he might appreciate that patience in his friend the very best.

“I am glad you are with me,” he murmured, carefully undoing plaits.

“You’d better,” Elemmakil agreed drowsily. “I’m hilarious.”

“I’m serious, El,” Ecthelion chuckled, smacking him on the shoulder. “I am glad you did not remain in Tirion, as selfish as that is. I am so glad that you are with me, here.”

“I am glad you are with me, also, my friend,” Elemmakil sighed, grabbing a handful of soapsand to begin scrubbing the sweat and grime of the road from his pale skin. “Very glad of that, indeed.”

“Glorfindel did sit with me at the feast,” Ecthelion began quietly, running the beechwood comb through the dark strands almost meditatively. “Though I realised he did so only because my seat had a good view of the musicians playing… he is in love with one of them, he said – ”

“What?” Elemmakil exclaimed, half-turning – wincing as his hair caught – to stare at Ecthelion. “But…”

“The red-haired one, Naryo, I believe is his name,” Ecthelion said, proud that his voice remained even, though he knew they both heard the strain.

“But…” Elemmakil tried again, petering out into silence.

Ecthelion shook his head. “Glorfindel asked me… well, not so much ask, really, what he should do,” he said, “and I… I told him that he should confess his heart lest he, like I, should one day hear that his love’s heart had chosen another…” The tears were warm on his cheeks, but Ecthelion did nothing to wipe them away. “And then I… left,” he added, “I could not…”

“I see…” Elemmakil frowned, picking up the soapsand once more, scrubbing his chest pensively. “But Naryo is… well, we _saw_ them, just now, he and Galdor.”

“Do you think…. Does Glorfindel know?” Ecthelion asked, feeling ill. Had his… _friend_ \- he would only ever be a friend, yes, _friend_ \- had time to ask the fiery lute-player for his heart? Or was he yet living in that hope he had mentioned, of love returned? Ecthelion’s heart hurt for him, almost more than for himself. He had known, after all, that there was never much more than a fool’s chance of him winning Glorfindel’s heart, but he did not think that thought would have occurred to the golden-haired elf whatsoever.

Who would not love him, given the chance?

“If it is as you say, I am tempted to call Galdor out,” Elemmakil said darkly. “Are they not friends of long yéni, even if less than you and I?”

“I would not have thought such betrayal possible between them, it is true,” Ecthelion replied thoughtfully. “And yet, if they both liked him, and left it for Naryo to choose…”

“I am doubly glad now that _you_ are my friend,” Elemmakil said. “For our tastes would never align so.”

Ecthelion had to laugh at that, though he knew it was a thin thing closer to a sob than he would have liked. “As, I am certain, is Voronwë,” he replied, tickling Elemmakil’s forehead with the end of one of the locks he held. “Even if it took you some time to admit it was more than bed sport between you.”

“It’s not my fault he’s bit by a mad ship,” Elemmakil grumbled. “I do miss the wee fool though; I hope he will return soon.”

“I think so,” Ecthelion soothed, though his mind was still preoccupied with the thorny problem of Glorfindel.

Ought I tell him?

“My bed’s quite cold when he’s not in it,” Elemmakil sighed. “Will you join me in the salt bath?”

“Yes,” Ecthelion decided, pushing away thoughts of Glorfindel and his cruel musician with a force of will. “Your hair is as tangle-free as it ever will get. Shall I wash it for you?”

“I would appreciate that,” Elemmakil nodded, trying to hide a small yawn.

Ecthelion had to hide a smile at the memory of the first time he had made the offer, absolutely scandalising Elemmakil with the notion that a Lord of his own House would deign to wash the hair of one who served him.

He had always known they were meant to be friends, brothers unlinked by blood yet bound together by spirit. Irmo’s dreams had said so, one of the few times he had dreamt of his own fate, and Ecthelion had never found cause to doubt that.

* * *

“I always love floating in this,” Ecthelion murmured, feeling weightless in the salt pool.

“One thing I did appreciate in Cirdan’s place,” Elemmakil agreed, “though I still say yours smells better.”

Ecthelion laughed, though he privately agreed; the saltwater pool they had made here – far more concentrated than seawater – was infused with herbs and flowers, crafted rather than made by nature’s hands like the tidal pools that Cirdan’s Teleri enjoyed.

“Good for the muscles, yes,” he nodded. “And no risk of stepping on a lost spinefish, either.”

“Admittedly, that was one of Aegnor’s finest moments,” Elemmakil chuckled, getting to his feet. “Watching him do that hoppy dance as he cursed it all the way back to its ancestral grounds was quite funny.”

“And his foot _did_ return to normal,” Ecthelion agreed sagely, following his friend out of the salt pool. “Eventually.”

They were still laughing at the memory of poor Aegnor when they walked into the final room in the bathhouse, the blue pool’s clear cool water lapping gently at the blue tiles that had given it its name.

And against skin, Ecthelion realised, steps faltering as he noticed the sole occupant of the quiet pool.

Glorfindel… he looks terribly unhappy.

His eyes were shut though he was not asleep, arms stretched wide as he floated on his back near the middle of the pool. Dark circles ringed his eyes, carved into the skin and bone by sorrow, and Ecthelion’s heart broke for him.

 _I wish you had had better luck with your heart than I with mine_ , he thought, remembering the view of Naryo entwined with Galdor as easily as the longing on Glorfindel’s face during the Samírien celebration as he gazed upon the lute player. _I wish…_

Part of him wanted to grab Glorfindel and shake him, ask him why, if he had to love a musician, could he not have fallen for Ecthelion himself, instead, sparing them both such heartbreak.

But he did not voice that thought, leaving his jealousy pushed to the farthest parts of his mind as he looked at Glorfindel, naked but for one of those loin coverings of the Telerin design that seemed to hint at more than mere nakedness would have, a loose end moving playfully with the small current of the pool.

“I regret to disturb you, my Lord,” Elemmakil said quietly, just as Ecthelion had decided to turn around and find a bucket to complete his ablutions.

Glorfindel flailed in surprise, for a moment sinking beneath the surface before reappearing with a splutter. He stared at them.

Ecthelion rather wished he had not left his robe on the bench by the door, trying his best not to let his cheeks give away the roil of emotions he felt being so exposed before those blue eyes. Sheer force of will kept his hands at his sides instead of attempting to cover himself, just as it kept him from staring hungrily at the object of both his affections and his more physical wants.

“There is…” Glorfindel shook his head, finding a semblance of composure, and gestured at the large pool, “there is more than enough room, Captain, my Lord Ecthelion.”

Thus bid, there was no escape, and Ecthelion felt a little surprised that his legs didn’t give out beneath him as he walked down the shallow steps, taking a seat as far from Glorfindel as he possibly could.

“You look terrible,” Elemmakil observed , ignoring Ecthelion’s glare as he followed, picking up a small bowl to begin pouring water over himself, rinsing off the last of the salt that the large vat of icy water they had upended over themselves had not yet washed away.

“I do not doubt it,” Glorfindel replied, leaning back into the water with a slight groan. “When one has spent days drinking, I wager even a Valie might seem unlovely.”

“You know, then,” Ecthelion said quietly, feeling his heart break anew even as it soared that he would not be the one to inflict such a wound. He picked up a bowl of his own, busying himself with his ablutions so he would be less tempted to look at the way water droplets glimmered in the candlelight across Glorfindel’s chest.

“That I have been a fool, aye, I know,” Glorfindel muttered morosely.

“Loving is never foolish,” Ecthelion rebuked harshly. “It is a beautiful thing, even if it does not turn out as we might have wished before it happened!”

“Is it not foolish to wish to go to him, still, when I know I should never have his heart, and ask for his body instead?” Glorfindel asked tiredly.

“Perhaps wiser to ask another,” Ecthelion offered, trying to be kind and understanding even as he wanted to say ‘pick me!’ as though they were making teams for a ballgame.

“Is that your experience talking?” Glorfindel asked snidely. “Wishing you had offered differently in yéni long past?”

“I have offered my love naught but my friendship!” Ecthelion protested. “And if I find relief from loneliness with others in my bedchambers, what business is that of yours, regardless?!”

“And yet you jump when summoned to his side, don’t you, little fountain-maker?” Glorfindel continued harshly. “Ever the obedient servant, you are.”

“What are… What is this… vitriol, my lord?” Ecthelion asked, feeling confused and beginning to get angry. _How dare he take his sorrow out on me when I have offered him nothing but sympathy?_

“Vitriol?!” Glorfindel exclaimed. “What vitriol is there in truth spoken at last between us?”

“Truth?” Ecthelion held up a hand for silence, dropping the bowl back into the water with a splash. “No. I think I shall not subject myself to this unwarranted attack,” he said, walking back up the small steps. “I bid thee a swift recovery, my lord, and pray you regain your senses post-haste!”

Picking up his discarded robe, he left the room, not at all peaceful now, slinging the thin cloth over still-wet shoulders as he marched back to where he had left his shoes.

_That was not my Glorfindel… was it?_

* * *

“The Lord of Golden Flowers wishes to speak with you, my lord,” his housecarl Polde said quietly, though she did not open the door to his chambers.

Ecthelion sat up straighter in the tall armchair by the fire, wondering if he would be inviting more yelling by accepting. He sighed.

“You may inform Lord Glorfindel that I am abed,” he called back, “and have no wish to be disturbed till morning.” Although he understood that Glorfindel was speaking from a broken heart, he had more self-respect than to allow himself to be a verbal punching bag; loving should not mean putting up with being treated poorly, even if the one you loved did not know he had stolen that place in your heart.

_I shall renew my efforts to forget you, Glorfindel._

Polde chuckled to herself, but he heard her soft footfalls move away from his door, and he knew she would guard his privacy ferociously if necessary. Physically, too, he thought, remembering more than one occasion where Polde had shown her name to be well chosen. Her will as strong as her arms, she had been a good friend of their lost White Lady - one of the few able and willing to beat Irissë at wrestling.

Attempting to lose himself in a tome on the building of bridges did little to occupy his mind, continuing to repeat the conversation in the bathhouse, wondering what Glorfindel had meant in his anger.

Sighing at the futility of himself, Ecthelion went to bed, blowing out the candle and leaving the book on a small table in passing.

_Perhaps I shall wake up wiser in the morning._


	7. Here Comes the Sun

Morning came on swift wings, bringing with it the chirping of birds outside his window, and Ecthelion indulged his favourite morning pastime for a while, playing his flute to the tune of the songbirds nesting on the small ledge above his window.

“My lord!” Polde called, interrupting his little game. “The Lord of Golden Flowers wishes to see you… and I’m thinking he stayed out by the door all night, too, by the looks of him.”

Ecthelion’s light-hearted fun irreparably interrupted for the day, he sighed, turning towards the door and trying to decide what to do.

“Tell him I shall add him to my roster of meetings,” he called, splashing water on his face, “he may have a half hour just before noon… and ask Sámo to bring my blue and white robes, with the herons on it, please.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Polde replied.

* * *

Sitting at the desk in his study, drawings and plans spread before him, the sun warming his back, Ecthelion tried to find his inner calm. “You may show in Lord Glorfindel, Sámo,” he nodded, ears pricked for the sound of Sámo’s steps and the small squeak of hinges needing oiling that presaged the door opening. His eyes remained glued to the plans before him, determined not to look at his guest, even though his attention was entirely consumed by Glorfindel’s presence in the room - which seemed to take up any available space as soon as he walked in.

A long silence followed the soft closing of the door; Sámo had left for other duties, then, and Glorfindel did not seem to know what he wanted to say.

“I am told you wished to see me, my lord?” Ecthelion asked mildly, keeping a seemingly careless grip on his ink pen. “Was there a purpose to this meeting or did you simply think of more ill-conceived words to spit at me this morning?”

“Only apologies,” Glorfindel replied, the fist that Ecthelion could just see in his frame of vision clenching in his long tunic for a moment before releasing the tortured fabric. “I am truly sorry for what I said. My comments were ill-deserved and I…I did not mean them.”

Ecthelion looked up, catching sight of a look he never wished to see on Glorfindel’s face again. “Did you really spend the whole night standing outside my house?” he asked, feeling himself soften slightly.

“I had nothing better to do than hope you’d see me even after I was so cruel to you,” Glorfindel sighed, accepting Ecthelion’s wave towards a chair as an invitation to sit. “I was just… hurt. But I should not have taken that out on you, and I am sorry for it.”

“I accept your apology,” Ecthelion said carefully, wishing he could somehow make Glorfindel feel better; his own disappointment had lingered long enough to become a fact, but he still remembered how raw he felt when he had first realised that he would never catch Glorfindel’s eye. “I do… feel sympathy for your situation; it cannot be easy to see your love in the arms of your best friend.”

“Best friend?” Glorfindel repeated, seeming confused. “I wouldn’t exactly call him my _best_ friend, honestly. I respect him a lot, of course, but-”

“I expect the relationship must have soured some in the wake of such a betrayal,” Ecthelion agreed, gripping his pen tightly in a sudden surge of anger. Now, he wished he had interrupted the pair in the doorway, wished he had not had to see the evidence that Glorfindel’s best friend through many dangers was, perhaps, less true than he had always appeared. He did not like to think of Galdor in such a light; the elf had been a strong pillar in their council for many years, and a valued ally. “Though you have been friends with Galdor since Nevrast, and I… would be sorrowed to see you fall out permanently because of an accident of the heart.”

“Yeah it – wait, _Galdor_?” Glorfindel exclaimed, looking suddenly far more awake as he leaned forward in his chair staring at Ecthelion. “What do you mean _Galdor_?”

“I… I thought you _knew_?” Ecthelion asked, mind reeling. “He and Naryo are most certainly not hiding their newfound love, after all – was that not what…” he gestured tellingly in the direction of the bathhouse.

“ _Galdor?_ ” Glorfindel repeated, flabbergasted. “…Naryo…?”

Ecthelion felt even more confused. “Yes, Galdor,” he replied, “and Naryo, the musician you wished to claim for your love.”

“Oh, that redheaded one who plays the lute?” Glorfindel said, clapping his thigh in sudden clarity that dimmed as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving him once more studying Ecthelion’s face in confusion. “… Wait, why would you think I was in love with _him_?”

“Come on!” Ecthelion exclaimed crossly, gesturing at him with the other end of his pen. “You couldn’t take your eyes off him while you were telling me of your oblivious love!” And Naryo fit his type, established in Ecthelion’s mind through years of covert observation; the red hair, the lithe figure, the musicality…

“…”

Looking at Glorfindel, Ecthelion’s confusion only grew; his face seemed caught between incredulous laughter and a sudden burning smile that was as bewildering as it was beautiful to watch.

“ _I do not love Naryo_ ,” Glorfindel swore. “If he and Galdor have found each other, I wish them all the best; I have no interest in him.”

“Oh,” Ecthelion muttered, dropping his pen from suddenly limp fingers. “But Duilin is wed already,” he said, frowning as he held up his hand, counting off the rest of the musicians in the troupe that had played at the celebrations, “and so are Liriel and Tyalangande…”

“No matter,” Glorfindel said, waving his hand in the air between them, the brightness gone from his face once more. “He whom I love still holds another in his heart, and I would not compete with him for his affections.”

“That seems unlike you,” Ecthelion chuckled, picking up the pen once more – slightly annoyed at the blot of ink that had appeared on his papers – and pointed it at Glorfindel. “I have yet to see you shy from a competition of any kind – I remember well when Turgon challenged you to that tree-felling contest.” He had enjoyed that day immensely, free to stare at Glorfindel’s impressive physique without seeming odd for the interest; everyone else had been staring at the two of them, too, laughing and taking bets as the axes kept swinging.

“Of course, you would,” Glorfindel grumbled sourly, crossing his arms over his chest with a small pout that Ecthelion tried not to find kissable, expecting his own failure as a given and thus unsurprised by the desire to kiss it off Glorfindel’s face. “I _lost_.”

“A valiant effort nonetheless,” Ecthelion replied, remembering the way sweat had gleamed on Glorfindel’s back, muscles stretching and bunching appealingly with each swing of the axe. He had filled more than one guiltily self-pleasured evening with such images, even as he had protested disinterest to Elemmakil in the light of day. “So why now do you hesitate?”

“I… how could I hope to win one whose eyes were turned long ago by my King?” Glorfindel asked helplessly, looking so desolate Ecthelion’s heart dropped into his stomach.

And then the words arranged themselves in his ears as to make sense, except they did not make even the slightest semblance of sense to Ecthelion. “ _Turgon_?” he spluttered. “But who would… he was so _devoted_ to Lady Elenwë, I mean, the very idea of him accepting a lover is ludicrous!”

Glorfindel barked a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Exactly,” he said, “and yet I watch my poor love pine from afar, scampering for any morsel of attention from our hard-headed King.”

“Poor ner,” Ecthelion replied, half-tempted to laugh, but Glorfindel looked so sad his mirth felt cruel. “I must have been more reserved than I thought,” he added, “I have absolutely no notion as to whom you mean…” Replacing the pen in its holder, he pressed his fingers against his bottom lip, pursing his mouth in thought. “It is not myself, nor Egalmoth, surely, and I think we spend the most time of any Lord with our King – unless you’re speaking of a servant in the King’s House?” Suddenly he needed to _know_ , a strange feeling that he would have forsworn ever appearing in his heart even an hour before, tormented by the knowledge of Naryo’s existence. And yet, not knowing the identity of his rival was somehow _worse_.

Glorfindel’s face was a picture, though Ecthelion wasn’t quite sure how someone would paint the myriad of emotions and expressions that chased each other across it as his mouth opened and closed a few times, lost for words.

“Not a member of the House of the King, no,” Glorfindel finally muttered, rising from his seat. “And I am beginning to think I have been more foolish than I had previously thought, Ecthelion.”

Ecthelion rather thought the way he uttered his name ought to be outlawed, the familiar sounds shivering down his spine like something that felt too hot to dare name, dark and desirous and –

“Glorfindel?” he said, leaning back in his chair to put a little more space between them, Glorfindel’s strong hands planted on the papers scattered across his desk as he leaned forwards, close enough that Ecthelion couldn’t help breathing in the smell of him, only long practise mastering the small whimper that wanted to escape as desire bloomed in his chest, strong and fierce like fire. “What… what are you doing?”

“This,” Glorfindel said, the word almost a growl though his hand was gentle as he raised Ecthelion’s chin, and his lips even softer brushing against his.

“…” Ecthelion felt frozen though his body felt too alive, and when Glorfindel drew back, cheeks blazing crimson, he could only stare at him, torn between grabbing for more- if only for the sake of his own fantasies - and pushing Glorfindel away.

Nobility won, though not by much, and Ecthelion pushed back his chair, getting to his feet in a scramble.

“I may have offered you sympathy, my lord,” he squeaked, forcing himself to calm until his voice returned to its usual even tone, “but I will not be used in such a way simply because you cannot have the one whom you desire.” _Though if you kiss me again, I will be sorely tempted_ ¸ he added in his own mind, biting his bottom lip. _Please do not test my self-control, beloved, I beg of you… I would rather have none of you than knowing exactly what I am missing for the rest of my nights._

“I would never use you,” Glorfindel swore, and Ecthelion wished to believe him, he really did, but he also remembered inviting others to share his bed if only to assuage the needs of his body – and he recalled the guilt he had often felt, knowing that he could not give what someone might seek beyond that.

“Let us not test that, Lord Glorfindel,” he replied, seeking comfort in the formal distance of the title. “I forgive you this lapse of judgement, and we need not speak on it further.”

“What if I tell you whom I love?” Glorfindel asked quietly, drawing back enough that Ecthelion felt able to breathe again, strong fingers twisting in the green fabric of his tunic, thumb rubbing across the small golden flowers embroidered along the hem.

“I would not give you my body in this moment, Glorfindel,” Ecthelion said quietly, well aware that the words were at once painfully true and a vicious lie. “It would be an act of vengeance on your part, I fear, and you would regret it later… and resent me for giving in to your momentary desire.”

“I would never regret that!” Glorfindel exclaimed, blue eyes ablaze with sincerity.

Ecthelion gave him a sad smile. “ _I_ would.”

Glorfindel stiffened as though struck, falling back into the chair he had vacated.

“Is there no hope?” he asked morosely. “Am I to spend the rest of my days yearning for one who won’t have me?”

“When it is less raw, you may ask me again,” Ecthelion conceded, even though he was certain it would be unwise for him to ever accept playing in Glorfindel’s bed. “But I ask one thing of my lovers, Glorfindel… that they come to me honestly, with no desire that I cannot fulfil.”

“You could fill mine!” Glorfindel protested. “I know you could!”

“Why are you so sure?” Ecthelion asked quietly. “You already know that I am not your heart; I cannot promise you relief from the pain you’re feeling at the loss of love you hoped for.”

“Perhaps pleasure would be enough,” Glorfindel muttered, looking at him.

“I am not even your type of ner!” Ecthelion chuckled bitterly. “If nothing else, concede me that point, my lord.”

Glorfindel sighed. “I cannot,” he said quietly, head falling back against the back of the chair with a dull thud. “I desire you more than enough.”

“How flattering,” Ecthelion replied sarcastically.

Glorfindel winced. “You are handsome,” he said, “and clever, too, even if your tongue can be sharp at times; you have a quick wit… and your hands are beautiful, whether they’re gripping your flute or your sword, or scraped by the roughness of stone.”

“I –” Ecthelion tried, but Glorfindel did not wish to be interrupted, continuing to speak over his protests.

“Your hair is dark, pretty like the wings of ravens, and your eyes…” Glorfindel said, “I could lose myself in those, searching through dreams and memories.” The fire had returned to those blue eyes, pinning Ecthelion to his seat. “I would unwrap you, release you from all this formal fabric, just to wrap you up again afterwards, leave the marks of my kisses undiscovered on your skin. I would drink you down, take you inside myself and keep you coming back for more.” Then his eyes softened, letting Ecthelion realise how hard his heart was beating in his chest, how tight his otherwise loose clothes suddenly felt. “I would have you – as much as I could – and ask you only to give of yourself what you would, if you let me.”

“…Why?” Ecthelion breathed, trying to wrangle himself back under control. “I am beginning to think you love no ner at all, if you would desire me so much regardless.”

Glorfindel laughed, so far from his usual bright self that Ecthelion winced at the sound of it.

“I love,” he snarled, “never doubt that. I _love_.”

“Then how could you ask me for all that you have?” Ecthelion asked weakly, drawn by those blue eyes, darkened by mingled despair and desire, leaving his head spinning with answering lust.

Glorfindel rose from his seat, a study in the fluid grace of motion, and walked to stand just on the other side of Ecthelion’s large desk, much too close and yet too far.

“Because I l-want _you_ ,” he said.

Ecthelion froze. For a moment, he had almost thought Glorfindel would utter a different word, the heart pounding in his chest suddenly dark with despair. _If I give you myself, you will leave me in darkness when you go, taking the Sun with you_ , he thought. _And yet I think that eternal night might be worth it, somehow._

“You shouldn’t,” he whispered gently, closing his eyes. “I am not-”

“You are Ecthelion Fountainbuilder, apprenticed to Irmo, favoured by Turgon-King, and beloved by Gondolin,” Glorfindel said quietly, sadly, his fingertips whispering along Ecthelion’s jaw, “and me.”

Frozen, Ecthelion hardly dared to breathe as the quiet words resounded in his mind, repeating over and over until he could not mistake their meaning.

_You… love me?_

Opening his eyes, he called out, “Glorfindel, I-”

But the study was empty.

Glorfindel had left.

And the Sun had gone with him.

* * *

Ecthelion had never run so fast, the wooden soles of his shoes hammering against the cobbles.

“Glorfindel!” he shouted, catching sight of the tall golden-haired elf, who looked too dimmed for his heart to bear the sight even for a moment.

Glorfindel stopped, though he did not turn around.

“Glorfindel!” Ecthelion panted, almost unable to stop his feet in time, slamming into Glorfindel’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist both for balance and to keep him from running off.

For a moment, the world was calm, right, _bright_.

And then Glorfindel stiffened, wrapping his strong hands around Ecthelion’s wrists and tugging gently but firmly until he let go.

But Ecthelion stayed, forehead pressed against the back of Glorfindel’s neck.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, almost too quiet to be heard.

Glorfindel squeezed his wrists, feeling oddly startled by the small confession.

Ecthelion’s heart hammered in his chest. He had never dared admit that out loud, even to the solace of his own empty bedroom, and even though he had often dreamed of saying them, he had never pictured doing so for the first time in the middle of a busy marketplace, jostling elves of all kinds parting around them like a river around a stone.

“But…” Glorfindel breathed, letting go of one wrist to turn around, his eyes almost wild when he looked at Ecthelion. “But you…”

“Love you,” Ecthelion repeated, feeling braver the second time. “Beautiful, generous Glorfindel, loud-voiced and hot-tempered Glorfindel, brash and bold and blind Glorfindel… my heart has been yours since we dwelt in Hithlum…”

This time, the kiss was sweet, bubbling through his mind like the finest mead and leaving sunlight in its wake, Glorfindel’s lips both soft and demanding, and Ecthelion remembered his earlier promise. _I would drink you down in turn, beloved,_ he promised, greedily taking another kiss and another, leaving the words unspoken.

“Why have you never…” Glorfindel panted, eyes wild with joy and yet cautious still, wary as if afraid to be lost in a dream.

Ecthelion felt like he could fly, soaring on the wings of an eagle far above the spires and walls of Gondolin, smiling in Glorfindel’s arms. “I convinced myself you would never want me,” he admitted, “and that I was content with admiring you from afar.”

“Galdor told me not to lose hope, even if none of his schemes ever seemed to work on you,” Glorfindel breathed, “and I was so tired of kisses that weren’t _yours_ , I gave up on them, I just... wanted to tell you, and let the pieces fall where they may.”

“Why…?”

“Because you told me – or so I thought – that you were in love with _Turgon_ ,” Glorfindel replied ruefully.

“…”

Glorfindel’s hands were strong but gentle when they cupped his face, and Ecthelion forgot his incredulous disbelief in the storm of more kisses, clinging to his broad shoulders as their lips met again and again.

“Be mine,” Glorfindel whispered between kisses, one arm wrapped tightly around Ecthelion’s body in turn. “Be mine as I am yours, beloved Ecthelion.”

Ecthelion shivered in his arms, desire heady as it thrummed through his veins, setting his blood afire.

“Yes, beloved,” he whispered back, stealing more kisses just because he _could_ and wanting to laugh at the perfect joy of that knowledge. “I am wholly yours. Always.”


	8. Visiting the bathhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This accidentally got written while I was trying to post the fic.... But it fits the art even better!

“Last time I came here, you yelled at me,” Ecthelion huffed, carefully folding his robe before setting it on the bench by the door and giving Glorfindel ample time to admire his lean corded muscles if he pleased.

“I can yell at you again this time for far more fun reasons?” Glorfindel offered, stepping up close behind him to press a kiss to his neck, one hand sneaking over to curl around Ecthelion’s hip.

“I think I should prefer not,” Ecthelion replied haughtily, pushing him backwards a step and ducking beneath Glorfindel’s arm to take a seat at the edge of the pool, picking the hairpin from the knot at the top of his head and undoing the ribbon to let his long locks flow freely across his shoulders.

“Maybe I shall make _you_ yell, later,” Glorfindel suggested playfully, taking a flying leap into the water.

Ecthelion laughed, wiping water from his face and kicking a return splash at an already-soaked Glorfindel. “Perhaps you will,” he agreed, picking up his comb. “I shall look forward to that immensely, beloved.”

Glorfindel returned to the edge of the pool, getting to his feet and leaning casually against the pale blue tiles, his own enticing skin perfectly on display, beads of liquid sunlight glittering across defined muscle.

Ecthelion swallowed, somewhat regretful that he had left his underwear with the rest of his clothes; if Glorfindel should look, it would be more than a little evident that his display was not lost on Ecthelion.

Glorfindel, of course, was wearing that Telerin style loin cloth that always seemed to simultaneously hide everything and nothing, drawing the eye by contrast with his sun-kissed skin. He was also speaking, Ecthelion realised, his hand returning to its task with the comb as he closed his legs, hiding the stirring of interest in other pleasures than cleanliness from view.

“-won’t mind,” Glorfindel said, shrugging carelessly, one hand gesturing airily while the other was too-close-too-far and then warm and solid on Ecthelion’s knee, swordsman’s callouses pleasingly rough on his skin.

Ecthelion moaned softly, trying to keep the involuntary sound in his throat, though he knew he’d failed when Glorfindel’s fingers flexed, tightening just for a moment before returning to a now seemingly casual grip that was so much more.

Glorfindel moved, the hand moved, and suddenly he was standing between Ecthelion’s spread legs, blue eyes ablaze with something that made the moan come alive in Ecthelion’s throat once again. He leaned in, lost in those blue eyes, and met Glorfindel’s lips in a kiss that made him curse his own stubbornness a hundred times over – how long could he have been kissed like this if he’d been braver?

The kiss burned, setting his soul on fire in the best way, and when Glorfindel broke it, Ecthelion’s hand fisted in his hair brought him back for more, pressing him close enough for his legs to press against well-muscled sides.

“Is this your way of giving my mouth better things to do?” Glorfindel panted breathlessly, his thumbs trailing small circles over Ecthelion’s hips as they breathed for a moment, trading small kisses just because.

Ecthelion tried to laugh, smothering the sound into another blazing kiss, his comb clattering on the tiles unheeded. And the Glorfindel’s kisses gained more purpose, travelling slowly down his neck – refreshing a days-old bruise over his collarbone on the way – until he could suck a pebbled nipple even harder.

Ecthelion’s head fell back, the moan this time free to float towards the rafters as he pressed Glorfindel’s face into his chest, wanting more of the same and better at once, his ardour now fully on display if anyone wished to look.

But the only one who _could_ would be Glorfindel, whose hand had already found the prize, stroking him lazily as his mouth continued to wreak havoc in Ecthelion’s mind.

“I like your yelling best when it’s born of pleasure,” Glorfindel murmured, running his tongue lazily around Ecthelion’s navel.

Ecthelion moaned half a protest, trying to push his head lower, but obeyed the pressure of Glorfindel’s warm palm on his chest and fell back on his elbows, just able to look up in time to catch a glimpse of Glorfindel’s smirk before all he could see was golden hair and stars, feeling himself enveloped by warm softness, a playful agile tongue doing its level best to scramble his every thought.

“Is that why you’re,” he panted, pushing his fingers into the heavy golden locks in an effort to see the way he disappeared between Glorfindel’s hungry lips, “so good at finding my pleasure?”

The answer was lost in another hot smirk as Glorfindel continued his blessed work, the air around them filled with nothing but the chirps of small birds and Ecthelion’s sweet moans and panted pleas for more.

Weakly, he tapped Glorfindel’s shoulder, but the golden head did not rise from his task – silently Ecthelion blessed him for it, even as his back met the icy tiles fully, the contrast between warmth and cold pushing him off the edge entirely, crying out his pleasure with a single name.

“ _Glorfindel!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a bit of bonus sketching from Vik ;)


End file.
